Friday, April 27, 2012

We’re in the Zocalo, having a beer and botanas with some
friends at one of the outdoor restaurants.I’m dressed (at the insistence of my school’s principal, and to Ibis’s
great amusement) as a China Oaxaqueña, in a flouncy red skirt, soft white
blouse, green shawl, braided hair with ribbons—we’ve just come from the Calenda,
the parade-cum-dress-rehearsal, for the traditional dance festival some of my
students will participate in the next day.Isaias is dancing up a storm alongside the table, admiring the balloons,
and eating spicy peanuts.

I see the girls—I always see them—the ones in shorts and
sport sandals, carrying woven bags stuffed with water bottle, journal, camera.I was one of them.And there’s one—there’s always one—in the
company of a local boy.I know they’ve
just met, because of the way she watches his lips when he talks, and nods even
when I can see in her eyebrows that she hasn’t understood. Because she’s so obviously exhilarated. Because I can see her pride when she orders an
esquite in Spanish. I was her.

There were two local boys.One became my husband.One was a
bad guy.I look at this girl, and wonder
what’s beginning for her.I wonder what
she would give to be on the inside, to be wearing a flouncy skirt and beribboned
braids, to be Nena to her husband, and Mamita
to her child, and Doña Somebody to her neighbors.I wonder what I would’ve given.I wonder if I gave it.

As we’re heading back to the car, we run into Rosy, on her
way to the late shift at the pharmacy.She
double-takes at my outfit and cries “Qué guapa!Qué guapa!” as we hug and kiss quickly.An older woman I don’t know stops me to ask what time the dance festival
will be held the next day, and I tell her.Being on the inside feels good, but not as transcendent as I imagined it
would when I was that girl.Less
transcendent, in a way, than being on the outside, and longing.

And the things I never imagined: running up a perfectly,
boringly, familiar street, long skirts swishing, holding my husband’s hand,
chasing after our son, and suddenly catching a whiff of the Mexico Smell,
whatever it is, or was when I first defined it: Fabuloso cleanser and tacos and
exhaust and old buildings and boiled corn.And instead of exhilarating, it’s comforting: it reminds me that I was onto
something, when I was that girl.